How Long Can You Take It, Bruh?

Bad vibes and worse weather swept the Midwest this week.  One of those weeks that leave you staring out the window and wondering just what the hell happened.  Armed protestors on the steps of statehouses around the country, being egged on by the venal, half-bright gink who currently occupies the White House.

This is a man who has all the intestinal fortitude of a half-inflated leather sack with a couple of googly-eyes glued on.  Unable to indulge his penchant for chanting and adoring crowds, all he can do is star as the antagonist of the world-worst whack-a-mole game.  A degenerate carnival where the rich make the poor dance on hot iron plates.  Essential workers to the front.  Defund the WHO.  Normalcy be damned!

Ahh, but those protesters.  The Isolation finally got to you, eh Cletus?  Bunker life got you down?  You go four(ish) weeks without a haircut or the ability to go out and socialize, and you're grabbing your rifle and taking to the streets screaming about your rights? 

Your rights don't end where my fear begins?  Ho-ho.  You poor, spoiled manbaby.  Calling upon recourse to your rights is a weak reed.  It means, simply, that we cannot stop you from doing a thing.  It is a defense of the indefensible.  A ceding of the moral high ground and an embrace of the indulgent, atavistic freakout that you so deeply desire.  You have the right to speech and assembly, and you're a dangerous asshole for exercising it.

But, really, wasn't this what your gun-toting prepper-types have been waiting for?  A societal shutdown that allows you to demonstrate your rugged individualism is just what you wanted, right Luther?  You've been hoarding food and ammo for just this opportunity, but can't even make it a month before demanding your social safety net be restored.  A thirteen-year-old girl hid from the Nazis for two years.  Albert Woodfox did 43 years in solitary.  You can't even make it a month.

I guess nobody told you that the Apocalypse was boring as hell, eh?  There aren't hordes of brown people zombies to casually pick off while quoting "They Live."  You poor, poor deluded saps cast yourself in a video game and it just hasn't lived up to the hype.  So now what are you going to do?

Boredom is a hell of a drug, friends.

King Cucumber: The Bad Theatre of the Daily Briefing

Have you ever encountered a Sea Cucumber, friends?  They are largely crawling bottom feeders on the floor of the oceans, breaking down scraps and detritus.  To fit into small spaces, it can functionally liquefy its body, and then firm it back up. They have no brain, just a rudimentary nervous system attached to a mouth, and when they are threatened, they will literally eject their guts through their anus to defend themselves.  All very fascinating, for the Wonders of Nature know no bounds, and very useful to the marine ecosystem, but not the qualities one needs when it comes to the leader of the free world.

In the depths of the Great Depression and the Second World War, President Roosevelt took to the airwaves to discuss policy and procedure, helping to calm the worries of an anxious nation.  He calmed fears and dispelled rumours, and went down in history as one of the most effective communicators to ever occupy the White House.

But that isn't what we got, ladies and gentlemen.  Today, in the throes of pandemic, the venal gink occupying the White House gets up every day for the COVID-19 briefing.  And all I can think is, "ye gods... we have elected a sea cucumber." Listening to the chunks of phrases that come splattering from his puckered lips, even the least discerning listener cannot think that this mouth is hooked to a functioning brain.  Lies and misinformation, from the President in time of crisis.  No, no, the perception that he has a spine is just that.  He can't be from the same phylum.

And just press him on an issue, watch the tantrum as he ejects his gut to be devoured.  His own dysfunction provides plenty of food for the media, so there's no need to keep an eye on things.  But ho-ho, King Cucumber, we are watching.  Some of us are watching carefully.

It can be interesting to see such rare animals up close on occasion, but in terms of pathos and narrative, there's very little on offer. But King Cucumber is hungry for adulation.  Rallies used to scratch that itch, but that's now out of the question.  So he daily mounts the podium, spews without thinking, and effectively shits his guts out when pressed on something.  Ho-ho, it would be funny if there wasn't so much at stake.

But we're starting to catch on.  There are far more interesting animals to observe.  Is it any wonder that a number of NPR stations are now no longer airing his briefings in whole? 

Love and Prosperity in the Time of COVID 19

Weird times, dear reader.  Weird times.  A pandemic rages across the globe and we are called upon to rise to the occasion by doing as little as possible.  Sports is cancelled, and we are, for the most part, closed for business.  A good time to have invested in the streaming industry.  This is a war we're going to have to fight from our couches.

How long?  Oh lord, how long?  Who knows?  Maybe we'll be reopened by Easter.  Maybe this summer is already over.  Who knows?  Nobody.

For COVID 19 is a tricky bastard, with a long asymptomatic period.  Not to mention a varying list of symptoms that range from "almost nothing" to "iron lung."

So sit back, relax, and keep out of the line of fire.  You now have plenty of time on your hands!  You could catch up on projects, or learn a new language!

And right there it is, friends.  Capitalist Exploitation (nee Protestant Work Ethic) has managed to worm its way once again into the heart of public discourse.  The world is afire with disease, but what are you doing to improve and optimize yourself?  You have the time, after all.  Get off the couch!

The siren song of productivity rings in our ears.  To work!

If you're bored, why not make masks for your local hospital staff?  Put that time to good use and help us fight the pandemic.  Those on the front lines of this are most vulnerable.  What have you done?

Once again, the powers that be have offloaded their responsibilities on the backs of we, the people.  This is one of the great tests of the social safety net, and it shouldn't be necessary.  Those we elected to do the most basic job of governance, the protection of collective life and limb (IE, the Social Contract of John Locke), have failed to do this.


Shuttered factories could be tooling up to manufacture masks and ventilators.  Instead, local grannies sew masks and ventilators are improvised out of other pieces of equipment.  Stories of how we rise to meet the challenge make for a good pallet cleanser from the nightly spectacle of our half-bright gink of a president, bereft of rallies, posturing before the stage.

John Dickinson chided the Continental Congress for "braving the storm in a skiff made of paper."  Friends, we may very well be doing it again.